


you're never gonna keep me down

by confusedrambler



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Flash Fic, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Tim Drake is Robin, Tim doesn't know when to quit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-03 03:16:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21172529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confusedrambler/pseuds/confusedrambler
Summary: Tim gets in a fight. He doesn't exactly win, but he doesn't exactly lose either.





	you're never gonna keep me down

Tim spat on the floor, dashed the back of his hand across his mouth, and stood. He wavered, slid into a wider stance. His arms felt like lead and his mask was cracked on the right side, a rivulet of blood dried and cracking underneath. He put up his fists anyway. 

Seven minutes to go. No sweat.

His adversary popped their neck and dove back in, moving much more fluidly than Tim himself. He managed to block most of the blows that rained down on his guard. It wasn't worth trying to avoid them or even turn them aside; his limbs were stiff and slow to move- numb with lactic acid and littered with bruises. Tim swung out with a precise jab and managed to slip a hit through the other man's guard. Just one, but Tim would take what he could get.

It was times like these, he thought, that he really wished he had a bit more bulk. He'd seen Bruce shrug off barrages like this without breaking a sweat. It happened last week, in fact. He hadn't even tried to block, just absorbed body blow after body blow and dropped the other guy with a single hit. One day, Tim might be that good. But he doubted it.

His opponent hit him so hard that he skidded back a few feet and lost his balance. He fell flat on his back, air whooshing from his lungs, and threw himself into a roll just in time to avoid getting stomped. He took the opportunity to strike out with a low kick that tripped the other up long enough for Tim to regain his feet.

Another barrage of blows and Tim turtled, covering as much of his face as possible. This was, he reminded himself, a battle of attrition. The point was not to win; the point was to last. There was a lot riding on Tim keeping this last line of defense distracted for long enough that the rest of the team could slip in and out undetected. He didn't intend to disappoint.

A heavy blow broke through his guard and hit his jaw with a crack. He dropped like a stone, vision fuzzing and teeth rattling. He could taste blood again. He groaned and pushed himself back up, running completely on sheer stubborn will. Two minutes to go.

His opponent was taunting him, but Tim was past caring. He settled into his guard, muscle memory kicking in when the rest of him just wanted to check out.

Tim was a big enough person to admit that even if he  _ wanted  _ to win this fight, that ship had sailed. It had sailed a long time ago. Probably about ten minutes into the fight, actually. That was around the time his opponent had ripped his bo staff away in a particularly nasty maneuver that almost snapped his arm like a toothpick. Ripped it away and dropped it off the roof like so much trash.

He was going to miss that staff, he thought giddily. It was his favorite. The best. Tim dodged a hay-maker with a drunken weave, huffed a laugh as he felt the wind of the blow passing him by.

"You," he grinned, showing every tooth stained red. "Are getting sloppy. What's wrong? Can't keep up with little old me?"

His ears were ringing too loudly to hear the reply, if there was one, and he imagined there was. He seemed like that kind of guy. Big, burly, and just a little bit stupid. Tim took a knee to the gut and doubled over with a gasp, skittering back as far as he could. His legs hit the half-wall that ringed the roof and he swayed dangerously. He chanced a glance down and hummed in satisfaction as he caught sight of a line of people streaming from the building, a bright spot of color that he assumed was Impulse directing them away from the building. He looked back up just in time to catch a face full of fist.

The force of the blow would have knocked him clean off the roof but, wonder of wonders, Big and Beefy caught him by the collar. He didn't exactly have time to be thankful as he was promptly reintroduced to the other guy's fist. Repeatedly. Tim didn't try to block, just fumbled at his belt pouch. He weathered three more blows before he found what he was looking for and by the time his hand wrapped around the pellet, he couldn't remember why he wanted it in the first place. Things were slipping away and it'd be much easier to give in to the waiting dark.

Another blow to the face and his hand spasmed, crushing the pellet in his fist. An acrid cloud of smoke poured from his hand and he dropped the pellet in surprise. The other guy dropped  _ him _ .

He tumbled down the side of the building, automatically twisting to scrabble for purchase against the brick. The rough surface wore a hole through his gloves in no time and when he actually found a ledge to grasp, the weight of his body almost pulled his shoulder free of it its socket. He choked, a noise bigger than he was catching in his throat and sticking. He dangled, a distant voice in the back of his head smugly reporting that time was up and he'd done it.

He couldn't quite remember  _ what  _ he'd done, so he elected to ignore the thought in favor of swinging his other arm up to catch at the ledge. He dangled. Dangled and tried not to think about the way his grip was slippery with blood.

Someone yelled up at him from the street. It was achingly familiar.

"Robin? What the  _ hell  _ do you think you're doing?"

"Uh," he choked down another laugh. "Hey, B. 'M just hangin' around. Y'know. Nooothing to worry about."

"For G-d's sake, someone get him down before he falls!"

He didn't have quite enough time to parse all of that before Superboy was pulling him through the window. He collapsed against Kon’s chest, too shaky to stand, and tipped his head back.

“Hi.”

Kon looked distinctly unimpressed.

“Hi. You look like shit.”

“Yeah,” Tim agreed. 

“Thought you said you could handle it.”

“I did. ‘S all according to…” he frowned, searched for the word. It really was hard to think past the ringing in his ears. “To plan.”

“Right.” Kon scooped him up into his arms without any effort at all. “Well, next time your plan is to get your face turned into hamburger meat, maybe let me handle it instead.”

“No,” he stretched the word out like taffy, letting his head bounce gently against Kon’s chest. “You needed… um, there was something…” He screwed up his face, then brightened. “A bomb. Needed you for the bomb. To hug it, in case it went off. You’re good at the hugging.”

Kon cocked an eyebrow.

“Rob, please. I’m Superboy. I coulda done both.”

“Nuh-uh.” Tim argued. He was vaguely aware that they were going downstairs, but he was having trouble following things again. He blinked, slowly. Kon jostled him, just a bit, and he whined.

“Eyes open, birdbrain. You’re explaining this to your dad. Not me.”

“No,” Tim moaned. “That’s the worst.  _ You  _ do it.”

“No way. Your dad, your problem. I only agreed to this side-job because you said he wouldn’t find out.”

It was about that time that they stepped out of the building and into the too-bright light of day. Tim promptly had a sudden and overpowering need to throw up and managed to twist away from Kon just in time… to throw up on Bruce’s shoes. He stared down at the mess for a while, registered a long-suffering sigh, and tilted his head back to stare at a carefully blank Batman.

“It was Kon’s idea?” He offered weakly.

“It was definitely  _ not  _ Kon’s idea.”

Another sigh and Tim was passed from Kon to Bruce like so much luggage.

“Let’s get you home, Robin.”

Tim squinted up at Bruce’s face.

“You’re not yelling,” he said. 

“No,” Bruce said shortly.

Tim blinked.

“Oh. Is this like a get out of jail free card?”

“No. This is a ‘Go directly to jail, do not pass go, do not collect $200’ card.” He stooped and Tim slid from his arms into the passenger side of the Batmobile. “You’re grounded, by the way.”

“But we did it, though,” mumbled Tim. “We stopped the bomb. And the, uh, the dead-man’s switch. Didn’t trigger that either.”

Bruce sighed.

“Robin? Stop talking before I ground you for the rest of your life.”


End file.
